Anne Frank and Me

by Cherie Bennett

  But it felt so real to me.”

  Mimi raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what dances better, your legs or your imagination.”

  Dancing. In a dizzying flash, one of the crazy visions came to Nicole again. Throbbing, manic music. Instead of singing, someone was shouting rhythmic poetry over it. She was wearing a black stretchy top that bared her stomach, and—

  “Nicole, look.” Mimi nudged her. Mimi’s voice seemed very far away.

  “What?” she asked faintly.

  Mimi cocked her head at a stout middle-aged woman across the street. She carried a mesh shopping bag and sported the same fancy hat they had seen in the shop window. But the hat was far too large for her head, so it tilted over one eye at a precarious angle. Mimi laughed. “I see the latest Paris fashion didn’t come in her size.”

  Nicole shook her head to clear it. The bizarre vision was gone. “You see, Mimi, if you bought the hat, that is how you would look.”

  Mimi leaned conspiratorially toward Nicole. “I could make three brassieres in my size with the material in that hat.” She looked down at her flat chest and sighed. “Not that I need even one.”

  The woman crossed toward their side of the street, dodging bicyclists—since every drop of fuel was now powering Nazi tanks on the Russian front, cars had largely been replaced by bicycles—and made a beeline for a bakery that had a long queue in front of it. Her sour face grew even more unpleasant as she rummaged in her purse for her ration book, while the oversized hat teetered dangerously toward her nose. Watching her, Nicole and Mimi began to giggle uncontrollably.

  The more they tried to compose themselves, the more they laughed. “Stop, stop. She’ll know we’re laughing at her,” Nicole gasped. Just at that moment, a single potato fell from the woman’s mesh bag. She stooped to pick it up and her hat toppled to the pavement. Then, more potatoes fell, one of them directly onto the hat’s crown. The rest rolled into the street.

  This was too much for Nicole and Mimi. They were convulsed with laughter all over again. “We have to stop! Think about something awful,” Mimi instructed. “Pretend you just found out that Jacques is in love with another girl.”

  The thought sobered Nicole instantly. She would die if Jacques didn’t love her anymore. In the American dream he didn’t love her, and it was the worst thing in the world.

  The hat lady gathered up all her potatoes and hurried toward the bakery. Nicole and Mimi edged close to the street to allow her to pass.

  Only she didn’t. Instead, she glared at the yellow star on Nicole’s vest. Then she spit in Nicole’s face. “Filthy Jew,” she hissed, as the spit globule oozed down Nicole’s left cheek. “It’s because of Jew animals like you that sold us out that we’re in this mess.”

  The woman strode away. Mimi quickly used her handkerchief to wipe Nicole’s cheek. “She is a stupid collaborator cow.” Shock and humiliation rendered Nicole mute.

  “I cleaned it off, Nico. Forget the fat witch, eh? Come on. Let’s go to Alain’s cafe. Everyone will be waiting for us.”

  Nicole allowed Mimi to lead her down the street. They crossed the rue de la Tour, heading for the Cafe du Morvan. “Just think, Nicole,” Mimi said, chattering to distract Nicole from what had just happened. “No more homework, just a whole summer of romantic possibilities. I am determined to get François to like me this summer. If I can just keep myself from talking about politics, I have a chance. You’ll help me get him to notice me, won’t you, Nico?”

  “Wait,” Nicole said, as they reached the cafe’s front door.

  “What?”

  Nicole pointed to a large, hand-lettered poster affixed to the front door. FORBIDDEN TO JEWS.

  A week before, the Nazis had issued another of their decrees against the Jews, barring Jews from going to cafes or restaurants. Nicole knew about the decree, but the Cafe du Morvan had been her family’s neighborhood cafe for years. In fact, a few days after the Nazi edict had gone into effect, M. Courot, the proprietor, had made a very public point of welcoming the Bernhardts in front of everyone, telling anyone who would listen that the Boche pigs were not going to decide who was welcome in his establishment.

  But the FORBIDDEN TO JEWS sign hadn’t been on the door then.

  “Just take off your vest,” Mimi suggested. Nicole still hung back. “I feel certain Alain would want you to. Come on, my idiot brother is in there.”

  Through the glass front of the cafe, Nicole saw Jacques sitting with Edouard, Suzanne, and Mimi’s secret crush, Francois. Jacques’s eyes caught Nicole’s and he waved at her. She would do anything for him. Quickly, Nicole removed her vest and folded it with the star on the inside. They walked into the cafe. All their friends greeted them. Jacques put his arm around her. Nicole cuddled against him, feeling safe and loved.

  Mimi slid into a seat next to handsome, dark-haired Francois, doing her best to look both casual and fetching.

  “We were just talking about the Resistance,” Jacques told Nicole. “They’ve struck again—a German supply train. They are so foolish to—”

  “They are not foolish,” Mimi interrupted sharply. “The resistants are heroes.”

  “Mimi is right,” Suzanne agreed. “Someone has to stand up to Hitler. Listen to this.” She grabbed a copy of a collaborationist newspaper someone had left on the next table. “ ‘For some days,’ ” she read, “ ‘Israelites, with or without their yellow stars, have with their continued insolence provoked a number of incidents in respectable cafes, hotels, and restaurants. The behavior of these Jews has been disgusting. But now, with General Oberg’s order barring these creatures from nearly every public place where a true Frenchman would want to visit, peace and civility may reign when only disorder prevailed before.’ Does anyone really believe this swill?”

  Nicole’s face reddened involuntarily. The “creatures” the newspaper spoke of were her and her family.

  “So, what is it you propose to do?” Jacques asked. “Throw irt clods at their tanks?”

  “Whatever it takes,” Mimi shot back defiantly.

  “You should hear what else Oberg said, then.” Jacques took the paper. “ ‘I have ascertained that it is the close friends and relatives of assailants, saboteurs, and troublemakers who have been helping them both before and after their crimes,’ ” he read. “ ‘I have therefore decided to inflict the severest penalties not only on the troublemakers, but on the families of these criminals.’”

  “So?” Mimi challenged her brother. “Are you afraid?”

  Jacques glanced at her coldly and read on. “ ‘One. All male relatives, including brothers-in-law and cousins over the age of eighteen, will be shot. Two. All females will be sentenced to hard labor. Three. All children of men and women affected by these measures will be put in reform schools—’”

  “Here we go again,” François groaned. “Politics, politics, politics. I am sick of hearing about politics.”

  Mimi turned on him. “How can you be? Imbecile Huns are running our country, and imbecile French are helping theml” Across the table, Nicole made a motion to Mimi to zip her lip, but she knew Mimi couldn’t help herself.

  “It is always the same thing,” François groused, as he sipped his ersatz coffee. “I am not political. It bores me, really. I am zazou.”

  Nicole laughed. “You are not zazou. They are zazou.” She pointed through the cafe window to a knot of young men and women who sat at an outdoor table.

  The zazous was the name given to a movement of rebellious young people who disdained politics. They all went to the same cafes and listened to “swing” music. The messy, long-haired boys wore oversized jackets, the girls wore sweaters with huge shoulder pads, and they all wore sunglasses, even indoors.

  “Where are your sunglasses, Monsieur Zazou?” Suzanne teased Francois. “Where is your long, greasy hair?”

  François blushed. “It is not my fault that I am forced to live under the domination of my narrow-minded parents.”

  Suzanne laughed and leaned over t
o kiss his cheek. “It’s all right, François. I understand. You are zazou on the inside.”

  Everyone laughed, even François, because there was something so sweet about Suzanne that even he could not take offense. Nicole thought about how pretty and nice she was, and how her heart had been shattered when Jacques had confessed that he loved her, because—

  No. That didn’t happen. That was the American dream. Mostly, Nicole knew that now. But there still were flashes that felt so real—No. Jacques did not love Suzanne. He loved her. Only her. Forever. She snuggled closer to him, and he smiled.

  “Where’s the waiter?” he wondered aloud. “I want to order you the best national coffee in Paris.”

  Nicole made a face. National coffee, made from ground roots and chicory, was a joke. There wasn’t a single coffee bean in it.

  “National coffee for everyone,” François proposed grandly. “Forget politics. Let’s swing like the Americans.”

  “Oh, I love swing!” Mimi exclaimed.

  “Excellent.” François leaned over and planted a comically huge smooch on Mimi’s cheek; everyone began teasing them. Just then, M. Courot came out from the kitchen and hurried to their table.

  “Nicole, I am terribly sorry, but you must leave.”

  “But she was here with me just a few days ago,” Mimi protested. “You welcomed her then.”

  “I welcome her now,” M. Courot said, his voice quavering. “But three Huns are checking my storeroom. Go, quickly. If they do an identity check they’ll arrest you. Then they’ll arrest me. Go!”

  Nicole’s heart pounded as she grabbed her vest and book bag from the table. Mimi stood, followed by Jacques and Suzanne. “If you’re leaving, we’re leaving,” Mimi insisted.

  “Stay,” Nicole said. “I have to get home anyway.”

  “I want to walk you home,” Jacques declared.

  “We all will,” Mimi added.

  “No. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the door without looking back.

  twelve

  It isn’t fair.

  Nicole passed the concierge’s ground-floor apartment and ascended the beautiful circular staircase that led to her family’s fourth-floor flat, wondering why things couldn’t be like they used to be. Before the war, she had written in her journals that being Jewish had never made her feel different from her friends. Even in the American dream, as far as she could remember, Jews were treated the same as everyone else.

  Now, everything had changed.

  “Nicole, is that you?” her mother’s anxious voice rang down the hall as Nicole pushed open the apartment door.

  “No, it’s Scarlett O‘Hara,” Nicole muttered under her breath, naming a character from a favorite American novel.

  Mme. Bernhardt hurried to the door and embraced her. She wore an apron over a beautiful dove gray dress that was much too big. Funny. Nicole had hardly noticed before. Because there was so little to eat, even her plump mother was growing slender.

  “Where were you?” Mme. Bernhardt asked sharply.

  Nicole sighed. Why did her mother always sound as if she were interrogating her? “With Jacques and Mimi. The lift is stuck again, I had to walk up.”

  “I told you to come straight home from your exams, Nicole.”

  “Am I not even allowed to have a social life?”

  Her mother smiled sadly. “Later on, I’m sure of it. But now, not so much of one.”

  Nicole looked away. Mme. Bernhardt put her hand to her daughter’s chin and gently turned Nicole’s face to hers. “Listen to me. I care more about your safety than I care about your fun. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  “Good. I managed to get some beans. I cooked them with vermicelli for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Nicole went to sit on the couch. Her mother followed, maternal antennae on full alert.

  “Something happened today,” she concluded.

  A woman spit on me on the street, Maman.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Tell me.”

  M. Courot told me, in front of my friends, to leave the cafe. FORBIDDEN TO JEWS.

  “I told you, nothing.” Nicole jumped up. She couldn’t bear just sitting there. “I’m going down to Claire’s.”

  Mme. Bernhardt folded her arms. “You are telling now instead of asking, young lady?”

  “May I go downstairs to Claire’s?’

  “Yes, you may.” Her mother smoothed hair off her face. “Try not to take everything so hard, my child. The Occupation will not be forever.”

  “I’ll try.” She kissed her mother on each cheek, then headed for the door.

  “Take your identity card,” Mme. Bernhardt called.

  “I’m only going—”

  “Nicole ...” Her mother’s voice held an unspoken three-part warning, one that Nicole had heard voiced many times before.

  It’s always dangerous.

  You must always carry your identity card.

  You must always be careful because you are a Jewish girl.

  Irritated, Nicole got her book bag. It contained the identity card that said that she was a French citizen and had the word Jew stamped on it in disgusting red letters. Then she ran down the two flights to the Einhorns’ flat. At least going to Claire’s meant going somewhere, which Nicole figured was better than staying locked up in her own flat like some kind of caged animal.

  According to Mme. Bernhardt, she and Claire had once been good friends, but had drifted apart when Claire’s parents sent her to a Jewish academy several years before. Nicole found Claire immature and unsophisticated, compared with her “real” friends. But at least Claire understood what it felt like to be singled out as a Jew.

  Nicole knocked. Mme. Einhorn opened the door. Her thin face broke into a smile. The Einhorns’ dog, an annoying toy poodle named Bon-Bon, began barking, jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Down, Bon-Bon. Bad dog!” Mme. Einhorn scolded the dog, then kissed Nicole on each cheek. “You are a mind reader, my dear. Claire is in her bedroom feeling quite tragic. Even her bubbe can’t joke her out of it. Go cheer her up. But say hello to Claire’s bubbe first. You know how she loves you. She’s in her room.”

  Claire’s tiny Polish bubbe, which was Yiddish for grand-mother, was so fond of Nicole that she had asked Nicole to call her Bubbe Einhorn. Since Bubbe Einhorn spoke only Polish and Yiddish, Claire had translated this request into French.

  Nicole couldn’t figure out why Bubbe Einhorn liked her, since they could barely communicate. Still, she dutifully stuck her head into Bubbe Einhorn’s room. The old woman was sitting in a chair, knitting a sweater.

  “Hello, Bubbe Einhorn.”

  “Hello, Nicoleh,” Bubbe Einhorn responded fondly, smiling at Nicole. “Ze gut tsu zen a shayn maideleh.”

  Nicole smiled and nodded. The only words she recognized were shayn maideleh, which meant pretty girl in Yiddish. Still, she nodded again politely, excused herself, and walked down to Claire’s room, where she tapped on the door.

  “Claire? It’s Nico.”

  “Come in.” Claire was lying on her bed, her thick red braids spilling onto her freckled arms.

  “Your mother said you were feeling tragic.” Nicole sat on the wooden chair at Claire’s desk. “Me, too.”

  “I can’t stand my mother.” Claire scowled. “She’s such a hypocrite. The world is falling apart but in front of me she pretends it isn‘t, as if I am a stupid child who must be protected from reality.”

  “My mother treats me like a child, too.”

  “Well, all I have to say is that when I am a mother I will respect my daughter’s intelligence,” Claire said. “Once she turns thirteen, I will allow her to make decisions for herself. Of course, I’ll probably never get married because no boys even like me.”

  Usually Nicole tried to talk Claire out of her negativity, but today she didn’t feel like it. She got up and wandered aimlessly around Claire’s room. Her eyes lit on a magazine photo ta
ped to the wall, of the American movie stars Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Fred was dipping Ginger—her wavy blond hair almost brushed the floor.

  Nicole touched the picture. “I wish I could go dancing.”

  “By the time they let us Jews go dancing again, we’ll be too old to want to,” Claire predicted.

  Irritation crept up the back of Nicole’s neck. “You always look at the dark side, Claire.”

  “I face facts.” Claire examined the frizzy end of one braid. “Everything is getting worse. There is one Nazi decree after another. And no decent food.”

  Why did Claire always go on like this? Nicole felt even more restless. She didn’t want to be home but she didn’t want to be here, either. Yet there was no place else she could be. She decided to go back upstairs and read. Maybe she’d reread Gone with the Wind. For quite a while, Scarlett O‘Hara hadn’t had any decent food to eat, either.

  “I’ll just be going...” Nicole started for the door.

  “Don’t leave!” Claire begged. “I thought you might want to stay for supper.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on. Whatever my mother prepared will be awful, so none of us will mind eating less. You could spend the night, too.”

  Nicole considered the offer. She couldn’t go out with Jacques or Mimi because of the Jewish curfew. Being with Claire would be better than spending the night with her sister.

  “My mother will want me to eat at home,” Nicole decided. “She won’t want me to share your rations. But I suppose I could come back down after.”

  “Wonderful!” Claire beamed. She jumped up and hugged Nicole.

  Nicole felt guilty that she didn’t like Claire nearly as much as Claire liked her. Why is it that people never love or like each other equally? she thought. There’s always one who cares more. A terrible thought hit her stomach, so physical it felt as if she had been punched: I love Jacques more than he loves me.

  “I’m so glad you’re my best friend now,” Claire said.

  Nicole smiled to be polite. Really, though, she wasn’t thinking about Claire at all. She was still thinking about Jacques, thoughts she would not dare confess to a living soul, not even to Mimi.